


Desert Heat

by kisstheprincessofpurewhite



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Ancient Egypt, Egypt, Egyptology, F/M, Gen, king tut was buried in his jammies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2019-11-05 07:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17914571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisstheprincessofpurewhite/pseuds/kisstheprincessofpurewhite
Summary: The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. After the death of her beloved Uncle, Claire Beauchamp takes up his work to discover secrets hidden under the Egyptian sand. Egyptology AU set in the early 1920s.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You may be asking yourself: “Syd, where is this coming from? Do you really think people will care?” and the answer is I don’t know and I don’t think so. But here it is. 
> 
> Useful terms:  
> dahabeah - a passenger boat typically used on the Nile,  
> Shepherd’s Hotel was a real hotel that most Egyptologists visited during the Archaeological Season.

_January 1922_

The blue waters lapped gently along the sides of the dahabeah as the company drifted to their destination. She had never been one for frivolities--the only lesson Lamb hadn’t needed to teach her in this line of work--but, if hard-pressed, she would admit that blue was her favorite color. Not just any old sky-blue or royal blue or the blue of forget-me-nots in a garden half-dreamt--or was it half-remembered? No, to her, the only blue that mattered was the blue of the Nile looking up at her at the start of the new season. Every year it called her, baptized her in its depths, promising discovery and recognition at last.

In past years, the last desire had been an elusive mistress. This season was different, though. Claire’s resolve was steeled; she would see her work come to full fruition or die trying.

She was lost in her thoughts, staring into the water below, when a voice piped up at her elbow.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of throwing yourself in.”

She jumped a little, but straightened soon enough. She refused to fall into the same patterns of other ladies, fainting at the slightest fright. She made a face at the man beside her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that now? Of all times.”

John shrugged, leaning against the railing with his back to the river. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You haven’t been shaken in the slightest.”

“And just what would I be shaken by?”

John didn’t give an answer, but Claire knew her feeble attempt of playing dumb wouldn’t fly.

“Claire, I know it’s been a few months, and you say that you’re fine. But it’s alright-- not to be fine. Especially coming here, to where-”

“What?”

“Well, this was his home, wouldn’t you say? Even more so than Oxford or London. And-”

She buried her face in her hands. “What is it that you want from me, John? To lock myself in my cabin and cry?”

“Well, that would be a good deal better than threatening the Antiquities Director,” she heard him mumble under his breath. She glared at him.

“Are you telling me I’m not entirely justified in this- this _act of thievery_?”

“I agree that the situation is not entirely ideal but-”

“‘Not entirely ideal’? They’ve given half the site away! Lamb’s site! Do you not know how long he waited and what he had to go through to get this site? Only for him to- to-” Her chin quivered and she felt the tears spill out of her eyes. She felt John’s hand on her back and with a crack she slapped it away.

“Dammit!” she scream-whispered through her tears as she slammed her hands onto the railing.

“Claire, it’s alright. Don’t keep it in, it isn’t healthy.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her collared shirt. “Let me be the judge of what is or isn’t healthy.” She quirked a smile at him and wiped her eyes. She had always preferred men’s clothing on excavations, and never saw any need to justify it to anyone in years past. But that had been when Lamb was in charge.

“In any other situation I would agree, _Sit_.”

She looked back down at the water. The Nile looked and acted much the same as it had every season she’d tread this path, as it had been since the time of the pharaohs and before. But now, everything was different. She was different.

“It’s not just Lamb, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s that damn St. Germaine in the Antiquities Department. He was only happy to take the site away.”

Of course, John knew all this. He’d been an army man--intelligence--before taking up work with Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, the not-so-renowned archaeologist. His knack for languages, living and dead, wasn’t bad. And he was charming as well as intelligent and knowledgeable, something Claire and Lamb had lacked desperately when dealing with Antiquities.

Despite being with them for the past five seasons, he listened to Claire’s woes, god bless him.

“Now, now, the site isn’t taken away. We can still proceed with Lamb’s plans as instructed. We may just need a little time to plan around our neighbors.” He swatted at the flies buzzing at his head and chuckled to himself. “At least we’ll have someone to ask for a cup of sugar, eh?”

Claire cracked a smile at that. “Did you get the name of who it is we’ll be _sharing_ ”--the word felt like a curse on her tongue--“our site with?” As soon as the Frenchman had told them about his plan to split the site, Claire had lost all sense of decorum, telling him off before storming out.

John rolled his eyes. “Some chap called Dougal MacKenzie, you may have heard of him and his companions.”

“The Great Scot?”

“Himself, yes.”

Claire shivered. Dougal MacKenzie’s methods were notorious in archaeological circles. They said he only cared for one thing: Egyptian gold, and anything else he regarded as worthless trash.

“Who has he brought with him?” She often teased John for being the camp gossip, as he seemed to be able to get any information out of anyone and know everything about everyone. She was sure he would’ve done some digging at Shepherd’s and likewise circles.

Her hunch was correct. “A translator and a photographer for sure, the latter being a woman, if you can believe it. And he’s brought two others but I can’t say for sure what they’re exact roles are. Only that they seem very...imposing”

“Muscle then. To dig for gold.”

John smirked. “And a historian too, I think. Jolly well, pity our numbers are so thin this year. Only me, you, and Fergus. Should’ve brought our historian, don’t you think?”

She grimaced but said nothing. She could hardly picture Frank in Egypt, despite it being his field of study. He just didn’t seem to fit.

“Have you heard from him?” John’s tone was serious again.

“I telegraphed him that we had made it safely to Cairo and to not expect any speedy reply.”

“Have you considered his...offer?”

She sighed and stared off into the setting sun. “I’d better go and freshen up before supper.” She turned and started walking back to her cabin.

* * *

The Behribu Pit had been just a divot in the vast landscape of Egyptian desert until three years earlier when French authorities had caught thieves digging there. This was of little consequence in and of itself, but instead of more layers of sand where the thieves had been digging, they authorities claimed they saw something that looked like stone. A full excavation had commenced, spurned on by the excitement of a possible new site no one had read of before. A new tomb perhaps? Or something else? After three seasons of digging, archaeologists were baffled by their discovery. The site was divided up into an eastern and western halves. The eastern half was a building often referred to as the Behribu House. Though any archaeologist worth their salt would admit that any site was a good find, it was also of most of these same archaeologist’s opinions that the western half of the Behribu Pit was the more intriguing: the Behribu Circle. A circle that at one time most likely been standing stones was there. Yes, if given the choice between the two halves--of which Claire Beauchamp had been forced to face this season--everyone would have agreed that the Circle was the one to go for.

Everyone, that is, except for Quentin Lambert Beauchamp. In the last years of his life, he had become convinced that the Behribu was the home of Dendera, a minor wife of Ramses II. Little was known about her, overshadowed as she was by the likes of Nefertari and Isetnofret--whose tombs had been discovered in the Valley of the Queens in 1904. Lamb had been determined to find out more about this Lost Queen and possibly even the location of her tomb.

Claire had never really understood Lamb’s obsession with the House, with her own curiosity always being drawn to the Circle. And even then in her grief and stubbornness she was willing to admit that they could be the ravings of an old man. It had physically pained her to make the choice posed by John--really by St. Germaine, but by John as proxy--the day before they left. But as she vacillated on her perhaps one chance to make a three-year long obsession into reality, she realized she would never be able forgive herself for not fulfilling the work that had consumed the last years of Lamb’s life. Though he had never been to the site, he had detailed layouts and plans--now instructions--and she was to follow them to the letter.

After unloading their gear and setting up their tents, Claire, Fergus, and John went into the village to recruit some workers. They were greeted by their foreman, who’s Christian name was William, and were met with some terrible news.

“I’m afraid that your countrymen have already been here and recruited some of the best men.”

“Blast,” John cursed and Claire set her jaw.

“We’ll take anyone that we can, how many could we expect?”

There were still a fair number of able-bodied men unemployed by their countrymen--as William had put it. It had appeared MacKenzie was not interested in number, but in size of the men. Claire couldn’t help but wonder what it was exactly that he was planning on finding here, in the middle of nowhere.

With the main reason for their business being done, Claire took out her medical kit and started treating people. It was hard-pressed to find penicillin this far from a major city, though that might imply the people would follow basic hygienic principles. Though, she supposed, with water as such a precious resource, she couldn’t blame them for taking their chances with a cut rather than dying of thirst.

 _The more things change, the more they stay the same_ , she told herself as she instructed a young mother on how to keep flies out of her daughter’s eyes. Fergus attended her as he had always done. She half expected to turn and see Lamb, with his jolly amber eyes shining at her behind half-moon spectacles, his white beard already turning brown from sand. He would be exchanging jokes and laughing with the men, no doubt. She thought she could even hear them laughing now. It was so real that she turned and realized there was a group of local men, joking and laughing as she had seen many times before. Before she snapped her attention away, she swore she saw a glint of red amongst the turbans and dark brown hair.

* * *

 

She had made her way back to the camp with Fergus in-toe. John had seen to that the rest of their campsite was set up, with rugs and pillows in their tents.

“Milday,” Fergus said softly. “If you do not require anything further, I would like to have a chance to unpack.” He had always called her that, from when they first picked him up off the streets of Cairo--a pickpocketing orphan with a scholar’s mind, fluent in French and Arabic, and enough English to get by. Lamb had taken the boy under his wing much like he had her when her parents had died. Since then, he had followed her around like a puppy. When she had been younger, she had resented it, but now she had nothing but love and respect for this man she saw as a brother. She had told him to leave after Lamb died, bidding him find his calling at the British museum or at a university, but he had refused to entertain the notion of leaving her.

_“And what would Lamb think, if I left you all alone now of all times? My place is with you, in Egypt.”_

She told him to go now and caught John’s eye. He casted an eye at Fergus as he walked away, then over to the cook at the fire in the center of camp, and finally at the tents on the other side of the ridge from them.

“What is it? I know that look,” Claire said, schooling her features.

“I spoke to one of the men in the Scots’ camp.”

“And?”

“I get the feeling they know something we don’t.”

“That’s impossible. Lamb knew everything about this place.”

“That maybe so, but he seemed very determined to ‘make amends,’ his words, not mine. And he seemed very interested that we had someone with medical experience here.”

“So? That just proves he’s not a complete monster like St. Germaine.” Claire snorted as she went into her tent.

John followed, but stood in the doorway. “I think he will propose we join forces.”

“Like that will happen.”

“Yes, I’m rather averse to the idea as well. I generally don’t trust people that kind-hearted. But I thought I’d give you an update.” He mentioned checking on supper and ducked out, leaving Claire to work on arranging her tools to be sterilized and cleaned.

It couldn’t have been a few moments later before she heard the rustle of the tent flap again.

“Is it already ready?” she asked, turning and letting a small gasp escape her lips.

The man who stood before her was not John, but a stranger. He was big, tall with broad shoulders and a cleft chin at the end of a square jaw. Even under the dim light of the lamp in the tent, his red hair gleamed. He seemed just as surprised to see her as she felt.

He removed his hat and cleared his throat. “Apologies, Miss. I wasna expecting to find ye, but Mr. Grey instead.”

 _A Scot!_ She thought as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You just missed him, but he’ll be back shortly, Mr.-...”

“Fraser, Miss. James Fraser, and you?”

Mr. Fraser looked at her expectantly. Normally under similar circumstances Claire might ignore him or spit out something to the tune of _“Noneofyourgoddamnbusinessthankyouverymuch!”_ But his eyes, so blue, disarmed her.

“Claire.” Her voice was rough and didn’t sound like her own in her ears. “Claire Beauchamp.”

His eyes lit up at that name and he nodded. “Ye canna be related to Quentin Beauchamp?”

She was taken aback. “You knew my Uncle?”

He colored a little and tapped his fingers against his hat. “Well, I didna ken him, only read his books. Verra informative.” He smiled at her.

She nodded. She remembered again the circumstances of their situation and set her jaw. He seemed to notice.

“I- Allow me to apologize again, Miss Beauchamp. For your loss as well as the events that have caused us to be bedfellows--” His cheeks colored even deeper as the word tumbled out of his mouth. “I mean- Christ. Sorry lass- Miss! Again.”

Claire eyed him up and down. “What is it that you do, Mr. Fraser?”

He chuckled to himself and rubbed the back of his neck. “Would ye believe me if I said I was a linguist? Though, I am not givin’ the best impression of my abilities, I am aware.”

She nodded. “I appreciate your apology, Mr. Fraser. But I’m afraid it does little to improve our situation.”

He nodded.

“How many seasons have you seen?”

“Four, including this one.”

She hummed and nodded. “Then, if you haven’t learned already, resources can be very precious out here. Should tragedy strike, we will have no one to rely on other than each other. If you or your men acquire medical attention, please don’t hesitate to say something. Pride does very little to stave off fever.”

Mr. Fraser did not seem put off by her comment. In fact there was mirth in his eyes as a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, any embarrassment long forgot. This annoyed Claire more than she cared to admit. She turned back to her table.

“Yes, I’ve heard what the workers call ye: _Sit Hakeem_ \--the Lady Doctor.”

She bit back a retort as she continued to straighten the equipment on the table. She was--should be--used to a man’s attitudes by now.

“Of course, you already know that, cultured lady such as ye are.” She glanced up at him. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and crossed his arms over his chest. “Which brings me to the real reason why I’m trespassing into yer campsite here.”

The heat in her cheeks deepened and she cleared her throat subtly as she straightened up. The sun must be getting to her.

“As ye may know, we brought along a lass this season: a Miss Marsali MacKimmie. Dougal wanted an artist to draw some of the paintings, so we’ve brought her along.”

Claire made an approving sound in the back of her throat. “An artist? That’s quite old fashioned of you, most use-”

“Cameras, aye, I’m aware. That was Dougal’s thought too, originally. It was my recommendation to use an artist. I’m afeared of the flash may-”

“Dull the paint,” Claire finished. He smiled and nodded. “And Dougal took your recommendation?”

He grimaced and shook his head. “Weel, I may be his nephew but he doesna always listen to me.” This was new information to Claire. She watched him as he dug his toe into the carpet below his feet and tapped his fingers on his hat.

“And yet-...here Miss MacKimmie is.”

“Aye.”

“How’d you manage that? Did you smuggle her on board your dahabeah?”

He chuckled. “No, I- uh Dougal is a stone wall in most conversations, but his brother, Column, isna always so rigid.”

“And Dougal will listen to Column?”

Mr. Fraser shrugged. “He has to, whether he wants to or no. Column, you see, is our financier.”

Claire nodded in understanding. She knew Lamb often had struggles with various lords in order to keep the money coming in. “So, excuse me, Mr. Fraser, but what does that have to do with me?”

He looked at her, shocked for a moment and then seemed to remember. “I apologize, Miss Beauchamp, I was distracted. Where was I?”

“Miss MacKimmie?” Claire offered.

Mr. Fraser nodded and seemed to be at peace again. “Miss MacKimmie. What ye must understand, Miss Beauchamp, is that this is the lass’s first season, maybe even her first journey away from home and-”

Claire balked and shook her head. “So, you want me to watch over her? Is that it?” He protested mildly, but she did not listen. “If she required a wet nurse, you should have brought one!”

His eyes flashed with anger but Claire stood her ground. “If you would allow me to continue.” Claire gestured for him to continue. “I can mind the lass just fine, thank ye verra much. What I was hoping, what I am asking, that if she has any troubles she could come to ye without judgment or malice. Not as a ‘wet nurse’ as ye say, but as a friend.” Claire grimaced at his much harsher tone and turned away, her ears burning. She heard Mr. Fraser take a step closer and she braced herself for what may come.

His voice was much softer and friendly than it had been before. “Surely you must’ve wanted for a friendly face your first time in this country.”

“You mean a woman’s face.”

“Aye, I do. Alas, ye ken as well I do that they are not in abundance in our line of work, unfortunately. And if this lass finds comfort in looking up to a someone as educated and knowledgeable as you-” Claire snorted. “-there may yet be one more among that number. And one can just as easily turn to two, etcetera.”

“Is this how you swindled Column into bringing her? Flattery?”

He chuckled slightly and Claire felt his breath as a cool breeze on the back of her neck. He shifted away from her, his voice raising to a normal volume. “I only ask your permission to suggest the lass go to you if--and only if--she finds herself struggling. Would you allow me that?’

Claire finally met his eyes and shrugged, trying to not let on how desperately she wanted to melt into the carpet. “So long as she does not interfere with my work, I don’t see a problem with it.”

“Of course, thank ye, truly, I will let the lass know.” Mr. Fraser moved to take his leave before Claire opened her big mouth once again

“She must be quite _gifted_ if you’re doing so much for her.” Her throat burned but she tried to school her features as she stood in the middle of the tent.

Mr. Fraser caught her eye. There was something in those blue pools that set fire to the butterflies in her stomach. “I’ve kent Miss MacKimmie for quite some time now, and I am verra fond of her, in truth. But my efforts to see her succeed dinna go beyond that fondness and belief in her abilities. She is a gifted--talented--woman, and god kens the world needs all that we can get.” He paused for a moment, Claire didn’t dare breath. “But, as it is, I remain without any attachments.” He tilted his hat in goodbye and walked out of the tent.

Claire collapsed into a chair by the table and tried to still her beating her heart. She wasn’t even sure if she was aware what truly just happened. She was lost in thought when John poked his head into the tent to tell her supper was ready.

Claire ate her supper thoughtfully, unsure how she was going to get through the next season.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First day on the dig and Claire is already feeling the heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the support on the last chapter. I’m slowly figuring out how moodboards work. You’d think I was new to this site with how bad I am at everything.
> 
> [UPDATE] I was finally able to get the moodboard on this chapter. There should be one for every chapter and if it isn't on the chapter here on Ao3, it will definitely be on my tumblr fic-blog @purewhitepages so please check that out if I can't figure it out. Thanks!
> 
> Useful Info:  
> “Petrie” refers to Flinders Petrie, one of the most famous and prolific Egyptologists ever.  
> The poem is borrowed (with love) from Crocodile on the Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters. It’s one of my favorite books and partially inspired this fic.

It was always necessary for the company to rise early while on digs in order to get as much work done before the noon sun stifled and shriveled them up. It was necessary, but that did not mean Claire did not resent it. She tried to suppress yet another yawn as she worked to delicately unearth the stone under her.

Her dreams the night before had been hot, though she could not remember any details beyond the burning sensation in her chest and belly, as well as waking up in a sweat. She tried to brush it off as nerves and the heat. Even in the dead of winter, the Egyptian sun was unforgiving.

For now she tried to focus on the task at hand and the sound of the diggers, whose work was supervised by John across the site. Lamb’s notes had proposed that there should be some sort of cellar–albeit crude–below the main level of the house. He had posited the entrance to be along the south-side of the building, where John and the diggers were currently working. Meanwhile, she and Fergus were carefully examining the rest of the building, even if just to see how much of Lamb’s notes had been correct.

“Milady, you need to stop looking over at the other camp,” Fergus warned as Claire yet again pulled her attention away from the other workers less than 100 yards away. She needed to get a grip and get over it, the choice had been made.

“I’m sorry, Fergus.” The words felt heavy on her tongue. The choice had been made, yes, but had she even considered the others around her? Fergus and John? Should they not have such an honor in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? She had never been good at making decisions outside of her medical kit. Those choices were easy: this leg is broken, set it; this child needs medicine, give it to her; this man is dying, save him. But when people’s way of life and reputations were on the line? The choice should never be up to her. 

Fergus seemed unaware of her internal struggle. “Don’t worry about it, and try not to think of them. We have much to do here.” He was squatting in the dust next to what Lamb had posited to be the easternmost wall of the structure.

She nodded and crouched down beside him. Fergus flourished the brush in his right hand expertly, using his left, false hand to steady himself on the ground. Claire had never been quite sure how it had happened, and Fergus had never spoken of it directly, but she could guess. She’d heard of the punishment for stealing in more of the unsavory parts of Cairo. If the rumors were true, Fergus was lucky to still have one good hand left.

They broke for lunch soon enough and took refuge in John’s tent.

“No scrapes for you to tend to yet, eh Beauchamp?” John asked with a smile as he handed her a glass of whisky less than a finger-full. “To breaking ground?”

She raised her glass and nodded, taking a sip. John sat at his desk next to the cot where he slept, his back to Claire who sat in a chair across the tent.

“How’s the papyrus coming along?” Claire asked.

“Hmm?” John asked, clearly distracted. “Oh, it’s coming along. Slowly.” John’s voice sounded far away.

During the war, John had met a man named Hector Dalrymple who had, in John’s words, “inspired him” to study antiquities. He had died the year before John had been hired by Lamb. John had taken up the work, translating the papyrus Hector had picked up in Luxor before the war. It had mostly been love poetry. It had been a little more than a monthly ritual for Claire to find him drunk off his arse and crying over the ancient scraps of paper. She was not so naive to assume that these antics were brought on by scholarly frustration, but if John didn’t want to talk about it, she wouldn’t push it. She just carefully laid the papers into a drawer, put the glasses away, and led John to bed, forcing him to drink some water before tucking him in.

It had been quite a change for their roles to be reversed in the past few months. Though, John had never punched her in the nose while she tried to wrestle him into bed. And it was in that moment–looking at him from across the tent–that Claire realized she and John were both fulfilling the dreams of their dead loved ones.

 _Quite the pair we make,_  she thought to herself as she sipped her drink.

Despite it only being the first day of the new season, Claire’s thoughts drifted to the next year and the one after that, if only abstractly. If not for Lamb’s extensive notes, she would have been at a loss for where to dig this season. What about next year? The Antiquities Department had made it very clear that if no major finding was discovered at the Behribu site, it would most certainly be closed from further excavations. Lamb himself had scoffed at this notion.

 _“It’s all stuff and nonsense, my dear. What does St. Germaine care where I decide to play in the dirt?”_ He had said. But it had been easy for Lamb to say that, he had acclaim and connections to the British Museum as well as the Egyptian Antiquities Department. They had allowed her this one year in memory of him, but what of next year? Would she even be able to secure a site?

Or, more accurately, would John be able to secure a site and let Claire tag along. What if John didn’t want to go next year? Surely he would be able to move onto anything now that his mentor had died. Fergus too. She felt lost, quite literally, in the middle of the desert, with only the faintest hope for water behind the next sand dune.

A throat cleared and she looked up to see a young woman standing at the tent flap. She wore a button-up dress belted at the waist with trousers beneath and brown boots. A large straw hat with a brim sheltered her face from the hot sun.

“Excuse me,” she said. “But I’m lookin’ for a Miss Beauchamp, are ye she?”

It seemed almost comical to even ask, as they were the only European women most likely within 100 miles. 

“You must be Miss MacKimmie, you may call me Claire, please. Come in and close the tent flap behind you.”

The young woman eyed the other two adults carefully and stepped in. John had looked up when she came in, but had returned to his work. It was unlike him to be so unsociable, but Claire assumed he was onto something with his papyrus. Lamb often got into similar moods, sometimes even for days on end.

“That’s John Grey over there,” Claire explained as she produced a chair for the young lady to sit on. “You must excuse him for shunting himself in the corner thus, he is in the middle of unearthing the dead.”

John snorted at her from his place in the corner but otherwise did not respond.

“What can I do for you, Miss MacKimmie? We were just about to have lunch, Fergus should be back any moment now with it, will you eat with us?”

The young woman colored at her words and shook her head. “Ye needn’t trouble yerself, I just- well-” She wrung her hands. “Mr. Fraser was kind enough to say I could come to you if I needed help and-”

“Do you need medical attention then? My kit is in my tent but I could-”

“No, please, I just needed to get away from the other camp is all. And, well, there isna much else to go, is there?”

Claire nodded but quirked an eyebrow. “What is it about the other camp that you need to get away?”

She blushed and looked down. “The men,” she said bluntly. “Not all of them, mind ye. Mr. Fraser is very kind to me, he’s my cousin, ye see. But-”

“But he cannot always be around to guard and guide you?” Claire finished, all too aware of what some men could be like on digs. She wasn’t sure if it was the sun or the low proximity to civilization that caused men to lose all sense of propriety and manners, but it had always been a problem too big to correct.

She nodded demurely.

“Well, I don’t see a problem with letting you take refuge here for now. It’s only us three and the diggers in our little camp.”

Just then Fergus returned, laden with plates for the three of them. Miss MacKimmie shot up to her feet like a lightning bolt when he entered. Claire stared at her and then back to Fergus.

“Ah, I was not aware we had a guest.” He placed the plates on the table where Claire and Miss MacKimmie sat, and brushed his hand on the front of his pants before offering his hand. “Fergus Beauchamp, at your service, madame.” She noticed Fergus moved his left arm behind his back.

Miss MacKimmie seemed incapable of speech so Claire stepped in.

“Fergus, this is Miss Marsali MacKimmie, she’s the illustrator for the other camp. She’s come here to get away from unsavory male company.”

“Not that I find all male company to be unwelcome!” Miss MacKimmie seemed to have found her voice quite suddenly. “Just- some.”

Fergus nodded good naturedly. “I will go get another plate, you may have mine. Please, do not wait on my account.”

As he exited, Miss MacKimmie fell back into her chair. Claire happily began to dig into her food, eyeing the young woman.

“I’ve always found an accent to be quite attractive in a man, if you don’t mind me saying Miss MacKimmie, now that it’s just us girls.”

The young woman’s eyes trailed over to John at her words, but Claire kept talking. “My first love was a Belgian lad when I was twelve. Something about that French accent. What do you think, Miss MacKimmie?”

“Oh leave the poor girl alone,” John called, teasingly. “Some of us have not grown as hardhearted and cynical as you.”

“Are you going to eat with us or are you going to continue to moon over ancient love poems?”

“I don’t moon, and I’ll be there in a second.”

The tent flap rustled and a deep voice cleared their throat. Claire glanced up and then straightened up at the site.

“Marsali, what the devil do ye think ye’re doing here?” Mr. Fraser growled, casting a glance at the women seated at the table, to John at the desk, and finally to the two cots lined up across the tent. “It isna proper for ye to be in a man’s tent. Even with- another woman.” His voice faltered.

She hadn’t even considered the propriety of Miss MacKimmie’s presence–or even her own–in what was essentially John and Fergus’s room. Perhaps she was too quick to judge men’s actions in the middle of the desert.

“You must forgive us, Mr. Fraser,” Claire finally said. “We do not have a common area tent and prefer to eat together out of the hot sun.”

His gaze fell on Claire. “Then ye must set up an umbrella or awning for an eating area.”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt, quite the big spender, what do you say John? Should we buy food next time or an umbrella big enough for the three of us to eat under?”

John grunted and Claire rolled her eyes.

“While you’re here, Mr. Fraser, would you be so kind as to lend your linguistic abilities to our man John so he can eat before going back under the hot sun, Doctor’s orders.”

Mr. Fraser seemed like he was about to protest before she mentioned linguistics. “What does he require help with?”

John glared at her. “A number of years ago I acquired some papyrus. There is no rhyme or reason for the various hieroglyphics between them. I have a hunch they were looted from various tombs before they finally ended up in my hands.”

“Well, I’d be delighted to take a look if ye’d like.”

“It really isn’t necessary, Mr. Fraser-”

“Mr. Grey, it would be my pleasure.”

John seemed at a loss for words and nodded. “Alright, I must admit a few of the cartouches are a bit out of the ordinary.”

Mr. Fraser smirked good-heartedly and nodded. “Allow me to lend my expertise, but later, if ye wouldn’t mind. Perhaps at suppertime? I have a few volumes I could bring with me, Petrie and the like. For now, we must be goin’. Come, Marsali, Dougal was lookin’ for ye.”

Miss MacKimmie exchanged a glance with Claire before standing and walking over to her cousin.

“Good day to you both,” Mr Fraser bid them as they left.

Claire jumped up and went to the tent flap, lifting it up.

“Mr. Fraser!”

He turned back, the heat seemingly making the air around him waver. His tan skin gleamed in the sun and his blue eyes seemed all the more striking underneath his hat.

“The invitation for supper extends to both you and Miss MacKimmie. We shall expect you both after the work is done, here, in this tent.”

He glanced at the young woman beside him and nodded before turning away to the other camp.

* * *

Claire stared at the two men hunched over the bits of ancient paper, eyes peering across the rim of her glass of whisky. She had tried to engage in conversation with Fergus and Miss MacKimmie, but had soon realized that they were not inclined in doing anything beyond polite comments about the weather and stealing glances at one another. She had noticed the young woman’s eyes lingering on Fergus’s left arm, but if she was at all disturbed by the false appendage, she made no mention of it. Between them and the scholars in the corner, Claire found herself quite alone.

She soon got up and crossed the room, peering over John’s shoulder at the work.

“Any progress?” She asked. 

“See for yourself,” John said, handing his open journal over his shoulder to her, his finger marking the spot.

Claire read over the lines and nodded. “It’s very…well, perilous, wouldn’t you say?”

“Read it out loud, if it pleases ye.” Mr. Fraser turned back to look at her, leaning back against the desk. “Poetry deserves to be read out loud, does it no’?”

Claire smiled and nodded. She took a step back, dramatically and held the book out as if she was preparing to read a dramatic monologue from Hamlet.

 

 

> _“The love of my beloved is on yonder side_
> 
> _A width of water is between us_
> 
> _And a crocodile waiteth on the sandbank.”_

Mr. Fraser’s eyes did not leave Claire as she spoke, the glass of watered down whisky at his lips to hide a small smirk. She glanced back up at him over the book, his eyes washing over her and causing her stomach to churn. She wondered to herself whether his was the gaze of the beloved or the crocodile? And which one would she have feared more.

John threw back the rest of his drink and held out his hand for his notebook, breaking the spell. She handed it back to him.

“Do you think that’s the first time that poem has been read out loud since the time of the Pharaohs?” Fergus asked from across the room.

“What an honor it is then, to be here when it is,” Miss MacKimmie answered him.

“Quite the sentiment,” John’s voice sounded far away.

“What do you think, Miss Beauchamp?” Mr. Fraser asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, our modern interpretation is quite different from what the ancient one would be.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Aye?”

She nodded. “Yes, the crocodile on the sandbank seems to us to make it the tale of ‘forbidden, star-crossed lovers,’ trope. Most would mention Romeo and Juliet.”

“But ye’d beg to differ?” The mirth did not leave his eyes. 

“The Ancient Egyptians, would beg to differ, Mr. Fraser. The crocodile is meant to show the strength of the man, it is implied he will triumph over the beast and is therefore stronger than a crocodile.”

“As ye say.” Mr. Fraser placed his glass on the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “What? Do you have a different interpretation?”

He shrugged. “It isna in my mind to infer what the words of a long dead man may or may not mean. I merely make the knowledge accessible and let the intellectuals rabble about it.”

John scoffed. “And do you not consider yourself to be an intellectual?”

He smirked. “All I mind is the connection, ye ken? To the man. We often think ourselves so mighty and civilized compared to the ancients. But to see these words and in them the reflections of emotions we too experience.” His words were emphatic, passionate. He looked up at Claire, the strength of his words reflected in the depths of his eyes. “Do we not feel the same yearning to be with the ones we love?”

It was getting late and the two Scots bid goodnight to their companions. Claire walked out with them on the way to her tent. Mr. Fraser eyed her as she dropped the tent flap behind her.

“Ye dinna need to see us out, we ken the way right enough,” he told her.

“I’m glad you think that. I’m not seeing you out, I’m going to my tent.”

His eyebrows raised for a moment before he schooled his features. “Aye, as ye say.” It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she swore she could see some color staining his face as well.

“What, did you think I shared one with Mr. Grey?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat with an eye at Miss MacKimmie, who was doing her best to look like she wasn’t eavesdropping. “I have no right to pass judgement on strangers.”

She scoffed. “It is true that we may ignore certain rules of propriety out here in the middle of nowhere, but a body has a right to privacy, don’t you agree?”

“Aye, I do.”

“And not all of us are so desperate for company of the opposite sex. It takes a great deal more than cheap whisky and ancient scraps of paper.”

The smile that so often graced his features when they spoke returned. As did the heat in her stomach that made her delirious with déjà vu. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Beauchamp.” His eyes sparkled in the low light of the stars overhead.

She all but ran into her tent and closed the flap behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I'll be able to fit this into any subsequent chapter but just imagine being John. He is essentially receiving poetry from his dead lover. Ugh, what angst. Anyway, I appreciate you whether you leave a comment, kudos, or just read. See you next week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets aren't the only think uncovered in this chapter of Desert Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter a wee bit earlier than scheduled because I'm going on vacation. The next chapter will be out on Sunday, March 17 as planned (hopefully). Also, comment with your favorite songs that make you think of Egypt, I have a playlist going to help me write and it consists of Walk Like An Egyptian, King Tut, Egyptian Reggae, the Mummy Soundtrack, and the Prince of Egypt Soundtrack. But if you guys know anymore, I’d be willing to try it. Thanks again for all the support.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/165323173@N02/33548917028/in/dateposted-public/)

The next week went by semi-uneventfully. The work along the south-side of the House was slow-going. John did not want the already fragile building to collapse and so took the time to reinforce every foot exposed. Unfortunately, the supports had broken on two occasions, undoing as many days worth of work. **  
**

“A damned nuisance,” he swore, leaning back in his chair. The top three buttons of his shirt had been open and Claire could see the sweat glistening amongst his chest hair. She watched him breath heavily in his frustration as her mind drifted to hairs that were most likely reddish gold. It would make the most sense after all-...

“Claire, Claire, where are you right now?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, what?”

“Is the heat getting to you, Milady?” Fergus asked.

She shook her head again and made big show of a yawn. “I’m sorry, I just am very tired. I agree that these collapses have thrown quite the wrench in the works, as it were.”

John nodded. “Though, better than the Scots, I suppose.”

“How do you mean?” Claire asked.

“Digging has halted these past three days now.” John chewed on his lip, his eyes far away from the tent. “I heard it from the men, but they don’t know why.”

Fergus shifted from one foot to the other nervously, causing the other two to glance at him.

“Fergus.”

“Yes, Milady?”

“What do you know?”

He avoided her eyes. “Mar- Miss MacKimmie hasn’t visited the camp these three days.”

“And?” John prompted, leaning forward.

“Well, before then, she had been saying how useless she felt, with Mr. MacKenzie requiring very little of her.”

Claire squinted her eyes, putting the pieces together. “So if she’s all of a sudden very busy-”

“You don’t think they’ve found something, do you?” John looked just as pensive as she felt.

“We would’ve heard. You know how difficult it is to keep something like that quiet.”

“We need to figure out what’s happening in that camp.” John stood and gripped the sides of his desk.

“How?” Claire asked.

“One of us is going to have to go over there.”

“I’ll do it,” Fergus volunteered. “I can slip in tonight undercover of darkness and-”

“And if they catch you?”

“They will not catch me.”

John shook his head. “No, we need to go in broad daylight. The opportunity may yet fall into our laps, let me think on it.”

He had been right, as John often was. The next day the opportunity to infiltrate the camp came running to the dig site dressed in a plain white shirt, brown pants, suspenders, and boots. Claire and company all looked up at the man’s approach. John instructed Fergus to keep an eye on the diggers and met the man at the edge of the House.

“Why such haste, sir? Are you in need of the doctor?”

“Aye-” The man’s breathing was heavy. “At the site- Jamie-”

Claire did not wait another second. “I’ll follow just behind you, sir. Take me to him.”

“He needs the doctor, no’ a woman!” A toothy grin followed the man’s statement. “Though, if it’s a man’s company ye need-”

“I am a doctor! Make haste, we haven’t a moment to lose.” She picked up the kit she kept at the site at all times and made to run after the man. John grabbed her arm.

“Keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”

She nodded, already feeling the dread of having to be the one to complete this task. She shook her head and soldiered onward, despite the man’s protests.

“What’s wrong with him? Is he sick? Injured?”

The man eyed her suspiciously. “Injured, his arm. C’mon, I’ll show ye.”

They hurried across the expanse that separated the two camps and into the biggest tent. There were several cots, one of which was occupied and surrounded by six men at least.

“Let me through! Give him some space!” Claire ordered, finally glimpsing Mr. Fraser with his shirt off, exposing his right shoulder, the bone of his shoulder sticking up unnaturally. His face was contorted in pain and colored slightly with red--from the sun, exertion, or embarrassment, Claire couldn’t be certain. She snapped her traitorous eyes from his chest and curse herself for taking some pride in her correct assumption.

She kneeled alongside the cot. “It appears to only be out of joint rather than broken or fractured,” she said, feeling along his arm. Mr. Fraser held back a cry of pain and screwed up his face.

“Step back then, lass, and we’ll force the joint back,” said a voice at her left elbow.

“Don’t you dare!” She held out her hand to stop him coming any closer. All eyes zeroed in on her from the outburst and Claire felt heat and tension radiating from them. She held her ground. “You’d break his arm if you do it like that. You have to get the bone of the upper arm into the correct position before it slips back into joint.”

“It’s alright, Angus,” Mr. Fraser spoke then. “Do what ye must, lass. Just be quick about it.” She took ahold of his arm firmly, resulting in a muffled gasp in pain from him.

“Hold him steady!” A pair of strong arms wrapped around Mr. Fraser’s torso. There was a tense minute of gasps and sickening sounds before the clack of the bone sliding back into its natural position.

“ _Tang do-it_ ,” Mr. Fraser breathed. “It doesna hurt anymore!”

“It will.” She started binding the arm to his side with a sling from her kit. “What were you even doing to hurt yourself?”

Mr. Fraser looked past her, presumably to someone behind her. There was a question in his eyes. She looked behind her and noticed for the first time a man she had only seen in photographs and heard of in whispers.

Dougal MacKenzie shook his head at Jamie and gave a crude smile to Claire.

“I’m sure ye know how it can be on digs, Miss Beauchamp. I was a big fan of yer Uncle’s work, sorry about yer loss.”

Claire stood and nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. She highly doubted he was telling the truth about being a fan of Lamb’s. “Yes, he spoke a great deal about you as well.”

“Pity we couldn’t have met, I’m sure there’s a thing or two we could’ve learned from each other.”

Claire had to hold back a scoff. “I would appreciate your assurance, sir, that your worksite is safe.”

She didn’t like the look in his eyes as they traveled up and down her form. She needed to get out of this camp as soon as possible.

“I assure ye, Miss Beauchamp, that what has happened to my nephew was an accident and is not like to happen again any time soon.”

“I’d very much like to see the site for myself to-”

He took a step towards her. “That won’t be necessary. There isn’t anything-” He was cut off by a flurry of activity at the entrance of the tent. Claire watched as Fergus--red faced and eyes wild--pushed through the Scots to Claire.

“Milady! Milady! You must come quick! John- He has found-”

Claire didn’t wait for Fergus to finish. She grabbed her kit, pushed past the Great Scot, and started running across the Pit to the House.

* * *

 

John’s hand felt warm and comforting on her arm as he clapped it on her arm.

“The old coot had been right, damn it,” he said. “I woke up this morning fully prepared for it to be the last day on this side. But it wasn’t even half the day and there it was: the entrance to the lower level of the House, just as Lamb posited.”

Claire nodded, gripping John’s hand with her own. She sniffled and Fergus wrapped his arm around her shoulders. 

“This is exciting, no?” he asked. She nodded.

“Will you wait to open it until tomorrow?” She asked John.

“I don’t think I could wait,” John answered, moving to look at the sealed entrance. “It looks tampered with. There were most likely raiders here over the millenia, but the structure is still intact.”

“That is promising.” Fergus sounded hopeful but reserved, much how Claire felt.

She nodded. “Alright, well, let’s open her up, shall we?”

* * *

 

Claire had been inside tombs and pyramids before, and the lower level of the Behribu House was not much different. Low-ceiling, no outside source of light. Claire moved her lamp around the small room, anxious to drink in all that she could before having to return. She had nearly cried when John offered to let her in first, she at first refused saying he had put all the work in to find the room.

“I insist, for Lamb,” he’d said.

So she had descended armed with a handkerchief over her mouth and a lamp with a single-candle to explore the small, dank room. Yes, it was exactly like every other like-room she’d been in, but it was different all the same. This room was hers. There was no treasure or mummy to be found, or even paintings or artifacts. But she loved it all the same.

Moving her lamp to the next wall something caught her eye and she crouched down to look at it. Something was scratched into the wall and she held the candle closer to see it. It looked like words but not in any language she had hitherto seen in Egypt.

“Claire, come on up, wouldn’t want to turn you into a mummy,” John called from the entrance.

She chuckled and turned back to the entrance.

“C’mon, give us a turn.” John helped her out of the hole and started to get in himself.

“There’s something on the far wall that you should look at,” Claire told him. He nodded and held up his journal to show her he’d write it down.

“Congratulations on the find.” Claire looked up to see Mr. Fraser and Miss MacKimmie standing with Fergus by the entrance. She nodded.

“All in a day’s work,” she joked. “How’s the arm?”

He eyed his right arm and smirked. “A wee bit stiff, but I’ve seen worse. Thank ye, Miss Beauchamp.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s my calling after all.”

‘Are ye a doctor then, a real one?”

She smiled sadly and shook her head. “Not in name. I’ve studied as much as I could both from books and classes, but going to university would’ve meant missing the Season. And who knows if I could even find one to take me.”

His eyes were understanding as he smiled and nodded. “I dinna have any degrees either.”

“No?” Her interest was piqued and she took a step closer to him.

He shook his head. “I was set to go to university in France when the war broke out.” Claire grimaced but nodded. “I volunteered right away wi’ all the boys in my village. When I came back, I did a few years, but my heart just wasna in it anymore.” He looked out towards the desert, but Claire saw in his eyes he was in a trench somewhere in Europe. She reached out and touched his arm affectionately. He seemed to realize where he was and he nodded, smiling sadly at her.

“I know I should finish, if for only for my Da’s sake. But-” He looked around the worksite, to the camp, and back out into the desert. “Out here in the middle of nowhere is where I feel the most useful.”

“I know the feeling,” she agreed.

A voice from the entrance made them turn to see John starting to emerge. Claire helped him up, pushing Mr. Fraser’s hands out of the way in the process. (“You’re injured.”)

“It is quite odd,” John said regarding the carving. “It looks like Latin lettering, but Lamb’s notes dates the structure well before that alphabet would have existed. Perhaps some ancient graffiti?” He showed Claire his journal and she nodded, confirming the accuracy of his copy. “Fraser, I’d appreciate your opinion as well.”

Mr. Fraser looked over, shook his head and grabbed the journal from John’s hand. He visibly whitened and shook his head again.  
“Fraser, good god man, what is it?” John moved to stand in front of the other man. Claire’s whole body was on edge now as she stared at the Scot before her.

Mr. Fraser looked up at both of them with a strange look. “This isna Latin, it’s Gaelic.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for such a short chapter and so much later than I had promised. The end of the semester is quickly approaching and I had a lot of work to get done after my vacation. Regular uploads should resume this Sunday. I just wanted to get something out as soon as I could. Thank you for your patience. I tried something different with this chapter, let me know if you like it
> 
> Interesting information:  
> The year this story takes place (1922) is a significant year in Egyptological history because it was the year King Tut’s tomb was discovered. It was a significant find because the tomb was completely intact, without any robberies. This was the first time it had happened. Some scholars have even considered this event to be the end of the height of Egyptology, though excavations still occur to this day.

From the Journal of  ~~Lord~~  John Grey **  
**

Late January 1922

E _xcavations have halted along the South Wall of Site BP2. After the noon-day break, digging yielded a bricked up entrance much like that referred to in QLB Entry 187. The desert mole had been right, gods be good._

_The brick was a typical mud of that used in structures at the time. Most likely made of earth materials (clay, dirt, etc.) and straw mixed with water and fired. Though, as outlined in several QLB notes, it is a mystery as to how and why such a structure was built so far from the Nile in the middle of the desert. Theories have ranged from perhaps great monsoons swelling the river beyond the usual delta, putting the river much closer, but there has been little evidence of that._

_The entrance gave little trouble opening and it would be of no surprise to this author if, over the millenial, any and all antiquities in the cavern had been looted by raiders._

_CEB was the first to enter and reported much what I had expected: no obvious objects or paintings beyond a carving on the opposite wall. I validated this claim and sketched the enclosed (JWG 55) of the carving, verified by CEB as what she also saw. The lettering appears to be Latin rather than the typical Hieratic, Greek, or even Hieroglyph. This would not be so out of the ordinary given our original thought that the structure most likely would have been raided several times over the millenia. But when one takes into consideration how out of the way the hereto unknown Site BP had been until just after the War, what is the likelihood of a Latin alphabet speaker to be here._

_This is not even taking into account the theory by JF--_

* * *

 

It was only after the scuffling had proved too loud to ignore that John looked up from his journal to notice the current state-of-affairs in his tent. An injured Scotsman, a well-educated Brit, and a Desert Frog stuck in the middle of winding sand dunes. He was beginning to think he didn’t quite like this joke.

“It doesna make any sense,” Mr. Fraser stated, pacing next to  the table where Claire, Fergus, and Miss MacKimmie sat.

“Well, as John said, it could very well be graffiti from a pre-modern age,” Claire stated, ever the pragmatist.

He stopped and looked at her. “Aye, but there is no written record of a Proto-Celtic language from before the Modern Age. And of course this isna takin’ inta account that I can read the damn thing in my own Mother Tongue!” His face was red and his whole body was stiff with frustration and stress.

“Can you please explain to me- to all of us why this matters so much to you?!” Claire demanded back to him, not swayed a step by the Scot’s temper.

He deflated somewhat and he glanced at Miss MacKimmie. The young woman caught his eye and looked at Fergus beside her, seemingly confused why he would look at her thus.

“I- I canna,” Mr. Fraser finally said.

“What do you mean you ‘canna’?” Claire demanded. “You can’t just storm around here scaring us all half to death with your incredulity at a carving and then hold out on us as to why! I won’t allow it.”

He seemed to chew on her words. “If I tell ye what it says, will ye promise not to tell Dougal?”

Claire seemed taken aback by this. “Of course.” She’d never had any intention of telling the Great Scot anything.

“That goes for everyone.” Mr. Fraser eyed everyone in the room as did Claire.

“You all heard him, zip it. You never heard of any carving in our cave.”

They all nodded. John sat forward in his seat as Mr. Fraser ran his good hand through his wild mane of red hair.

“‘Tis part of a larger verse, ye ken? But the part inscribed is ‘I give you my spirit till our life should be done.’”

Claire blinked a few times. “What is it a part of?”

“It’s a wedding vow,” Miss MacKimmie piped up then. “The former part being ‘You are blood of my blood and bone of my bone. I give you my body so that we two may be one.’” She gestured to Mr. Fraser. “And then the rest.”

He nodded.

“Is it common in Scotland?” John asked.

Mr. Fraser nodded.

“That’s what’s got you in such a state?” Claire asked.

“‘Tis not a light vow, lass.” Mr. Fraser looked almost offended at her inability to understand.

“I never implied it wasn’t. But I fail to see why a wedding vow would cause you to be so shocked by its existence.”

“I said I would tell you what it meant, not what it means to me.” Claire was about to protest until his hand came up to stop her. She closed her mouth. 

“Please, Miss Beauchamp, give me one day. I promise to explain everything tomorrow. Just give me a night to think on it.”

She looked to John who shrugged. “What else can we do but trust him? We’ve sworn not to let the news leave this tent.” Claire did not look happy, but she did not protest. “Mr. Fraser, you have your day. Pray do not disappoint.”

* * *

 

From the Journal of Quentin Lambert Beauchamp

Entry 187 1920-1921?

_The discovery of Site BP has opened up new possibilities I had scarce thought of before. The stone circle at BP1 has many thinking of such sites as Stonehenge and Craig Na Duhn, but anyone who knows me best knows I could care less for faery stories and such poppycock. Leave that for the Frogs to squabble over._

_What most interests me is the other side, BP2 and the House, though I know CB thinks me a daft old man for it. Perhaps I am._

_From my experience and the notes of Emerson last season, I have a strong belief the entrance will be along the south side rather than the north side as that pompous-- Well, Emerson has decided to try there this season, but I predict he will come up with nothing but sand. All the better for me to snatch it from him next year._

_I’ve been thinking long and hard, and I’ve come to a decision. After doing my due work at BP, I have decided to retire. Though I will miss the sands of the stretching wasteland, doubtless it will shift without me. Imagine me, an old coot in a cottage by the sea. And if I can convince CB to come along with us, all the better. Anytime I have left, I would much like to spend it with her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal headcanon, "CB" is clearly supposed to stand for "Claire Beauchamp" in Lamb's journal, but I think he means it as "Claire Bear."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends am back i swear. I lost a lot of momentum on this fic due to personal reasons / school / life, but I think I’m back for good this time. I promise.

Digging had halted at the House while further notes and sketches were taken of the lower level. John had come up with another handful of papyrus he’d found buried in the corner. These were much more fragile than the ones he’d inherited, and Claire immediately set to work preserving them in the resin of Lamb’s own recipe. She remembered spending many painstaking hours of her childhood making this same thick, sticky brown substance. The bottle she was currently working out of had the stylized “QLB” in the corner of the label, signified it was made by Lamb himself. Perhaps it was one of the last ones to be so. Her eye kept catching the letters in the bottom corner and she smiled a bit every time she saw it. He was still helping in his own ways.

She was sitting hunched over the table that functioned as John’s desk when a book being placed next to her elbow made her jump nearly clear out of her skin.

“Och, sorry lass.” A strong hand had found her back and she looked up to see the voice belonged to Mr. Fraser. Was it night time already?

“What have you got there?”

Claire blinked and shook her head slightly. “Papyrus, John found it under the House.”

“Preserving it are ye?”

She nodded. 

He chuckled. “I can sympathize, manys an hour I lost to painting over bits of paper and paint.” He examined what she was doing even closer. His arm was still in the sling she had applied and she took a sort of pride knowing that he had listened to her advice to rest. “How is it that ye’re applying the resin?”

She held up her pinky finger to show how red and dirty it was. “After nearly destroying one with a brush, I found a more delicate touch did the trick.”

He looked impressed at least. “How many have you done?”

“Five, this is my last one.” She took a moment to stand. “It’s all the standard cartouches, at least according to my eye. I could never do much without Lamb’s notes to guide me.”

He smiled secretly at her. “Funny you should mention that.” He tapped the book he’d set down on the desk and Claire looked at it. 

It was strange, the things you remembered. A stack of books delivered to the house when she was a child; people approaching at the museum with a sparkling look in their eye, a tome tucked under one elbow; the plain black spine with gold lettering sitting in a pile in her own tent. Mr. Fraser traced the letters on his copy of _Path to the Ancient Ways_ by Dr. Quentin Lambert Beauchamp with familiarity and reverence. 

“It’s a pity you couldn’t have met the author,” she said. “He was always happy to meet his audience.” 

“Ah weel, ‘tis probably best this way. I dinna think I could bear to see my idol as a mortal man, ye ken?” 

“Idol?”

Mr. Fraser met her eyes and nodded. “Aye.” He tapped the cover of the book. “When I was a lad, I was hungry for knowledge.” He gestured broadly. “No doubt ye ken the feeling. I was determined to read every book in my parents’ library.” Claire settled into the chair. She’d always loved a good story. “Now, that’s well over a thousand books, Sassenach. My family has been building that library since before they built the house.”

“I see your family has their priorities in order, then.”

He glanced up at her and nodded with a proud grin. “Aye, always loved a good book, my father. Anyway, I read and I read. Books about animals and philosophy, the latter of which I dinna understand a lick of, and then I came upon this book.” He tapped the cover once again. “And I stopped looking at anything else.” He opened up the cover and thumbed through a couple of pages absentmindedly, lost in memory. “Ye could barely catch me without it in my hands or my bag, damn near ruined my copy.” 

“It looks alright to me,” Claire said, inspecting the book. Other than a few wears and tears, the book looked to be in good condition. 

Mr. Fraser smiled. “This is my second copy. Damn nuisance trying to find it, too. I scoured every bookshop, old and used, looking for this book.”

Claire snorted. “You should’ve contacted us, we have probably a hundred copies.” 

He nodded. “I never understood why it didna sell so well. Ye’re uncle was a genius.”  
Claire nodded and smiled. “Yes, he was. They just didn’t understand him.” Her smile turned sad as she looked back up at her companion. “And I saw what it did to him, how it stifled and disheartened him. I knew what he was.” 

Mr. Fraser nodded. “As do I, Sassenach.” 

They were soon interrupted by John coming back into the tent.

“How goes the preservation?” he asked. 

Claire showed him the papyrus and explained her progress and theories. John nodded and smiled when he saw Mr. Fraser’s book. 

“Thanks for the sentiment, Fraser, but you should’ve known we’d have a copy of our sacred text or two.” John pulled out his own copy of _Path to the Ancient Ways._ “Wouldn’t be good followers, if we didn’t.” 

They shared a laugh.

“I do appreciate the help, though. And you have mine should you ever require it.”

Mr. Fraser nodded. “That is related to what I have to tell you all today.”

Claire remembered his outburst the day before, having nearly forgotten about it. 

John nodded. “Yes, you’ve had your 24-hours, and then some by my watch. What do you have to say?”

Mr. Fraser looked as if he was choosing his words very carefully. “I would like to, first, apologize for my behavior from the day before. Ye have to understand, this Season has been very strange. We had been all set to dig at Dashoor, I had prepared everything for excavating the pyramid there, including bringing on Miss MacKimmie. And we get to Shepheard’s and Dougal tells me that we are going to Behribu? I was in shock. I was completely unprepared for this excursion, and I’ve found myself quite idle ever since we started digging.”

“So you have no idea what MacKenzie is hoping to look for?” John asked.

Mr. Fraser shook his head. “If there is a plan, he hasna shared it with me. That, in itself would not be such a change, I’ve gone behind his back to Column a time or two to get things I needed and he is none too pleased by this. But this is different. He’s planning something.”

Claire and John looked at each other and back to Mr. Fraser. “What does that have to do with the writing we saw yesterday?”

Mr. Fraser ran his good hand through his hair, the russet curls standing on end in his frustration. “Ye’ll think me daft.”

“We already do,” John pointed out. “Out with it, already.” 

“Before we left, Dougal had made the... _acquaintance_ of a woman very interested in Ancient Egypt religious practices. Not in an academic sense, mind you. She believed she was a Pharaoh’s wife reincarnated.” 

“Which one?” Claire asked with a laugh and John scowled. 

Mr. Fraser shook his head. “I didna ever listen to her long enough to find out. But I did catch enough to hear her hypothesis about-” He stopped himself, as if once he spoke the words, they would legitimize whatever daft theory this woman had in mind. “ _Time travel._ ”

He glanced up at the two other adults, who were staring back at him intently.

“Does Dougal believe her, you think?” John asked. “That’s why he took the site, that’s why the writing we found in the House scares you?”

Mr. Fraser rubbed the back of his neck. “I dinna ken what to believe, if I’m being honest. I just feel, somewhere deep inside me, that this canna be a coincidence.” Mr. Fraser had always looked so put-together, Claire had noted. But now, he really seemed to be questioning his very sanity. And though the notion seemed quite extraordinary, he said it so incredulously that she couldn’t help but believe him. Or, at least, believe that he believed it.

“But it could be,” Claire stated. Both the men looked at her with startled expressions. “I do not doubt your story, Mr. Fraser. But, well, you yourself think this woman Dougal knows has crazy ideas. Maybe the writing is graffiti like John said. It could be a coincidence.” Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “Afterall, are we really debating the existence of time travel?”

“I think what we should do is assume everything is alright until we have something better to go on,” John suggested. “Fraser, what did your team find recently?”

Mr. Fraser looked up to John. “How did ye ken we found something?”

“We guessed,” John said, looking over in the corner where Fergus and Miss MacKimmie were engaged in their own deep conversation. 

He nodded. “Another stone, in the very middle.”

“Quite the find.” Claire nodded with John. Claire had predicted as much in her own research. In many circles around the world, there was a middle stone. _That should’ve been my discovery,_ she thought with a snarl. 

“As Claire says, it could be nothing. We’ll gather any info we can and regroup. Fraser, I’m game to start on these papyrus tonight if you are.” John moved to the desk, moving one of the chairs from the table so that he and Mr. Fraser may sit side-by-side.

“I think I’ll take that as my cue,” Claire said. “Good luck to you both.”

“I’ll see ye to the door, at least.” Mr. Fraser did and they paused in the entrance to the tent. 

“What’s troubling ye, Sassenach?” he asked, no doubt from the look in Claire’s eye. She had always had a hard time keeping her thoughts to herself. The moonlight stretched across the desert and illuminated Mr. Fraser’s face. He looked thoughtful and slightly worried for her, stranger as she may be to him. 

“Things are not turning out like I had anticipated this season. First Lamb and now-”

He nodded and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Ye’ll get through this, I ken it. Ye needn’t be worried or scairt, so long as I’m with ye.”

“And what about after?” she asked. “I don’t even know what is after this.”

“One step at a time, Sassenach.”

"You keep using that name, what does it mean?”

Even in the moonlight, she could see him blush, as if he hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “Och, just a wee nickname is all. It just means ‘English’ in the Gaelic, ye ken? Seeing as we’re pretty much divided according to Hadrian’s Wall here in the middle of nowhere.” 

She chuckled and moved to go to her tent. “Goodnight Mr. Fraser.”

“Goodnight, Miss Beauchamp.”


End file.
